The Kindly Ones полностью

“What a circus!” she exclaimed in the car.—“That’s nothing compared to what they did for the commission from the Wehrmacht,” Reinholz commented.—“And those gifts!” she went on. “What are they thinking? That they can buy off SS officers? That’s really a Jewish tactic.” I didn’t say anything: Weseloh annoyed me, she seemed to have started out with her mind already made up; I didn’t think that was the right way to go about it. At the Sonderkommando offices, she explained that the old man with whom she had talked knew the Koran, the prayers, and Muslim customs well, but according to her, that didn’t prove anything. An orderly came in and addressed Reinholz: “There’s a phone call from the Ortskommandantur. They say that someone was asking for a Leutnant Voss.”—“Oh, that’s me,” I said. I followed the orderly into the communication room and took the receiver. An unknown voice spoke: “Are you the one that left a message for Leutnant Voss?”—“Yes,” I replied, perplexed.—“I’m sorry to tell you that he was wounded and won’t be able to call you back,” the man said. My throat suddenly tightened: “Is it serious?”—“Yes, pretty serious.”—“Where is he?”—“Here, at the medical station.”—“I’ll come.” I hung up and went back into the room where Weseloh and Reinholz were. “I have to go to the Ortskommandantur,” I said as I reached for my coat.—“What’s wrong?” Reinholz asked. My face must have been white; I quickly turned away. “I’ll be back soon,” I said as I went out.

Outside, night was falling, and it was very cold. I had gone by foot; in my haste I had forgotten my shapka; soon I began shivering. I walked quickly and almost slipped on a sheet of black ice; I managed to catch hold of a streetlight, but I hurt my arm. The cold gripped my bare head; my fingers, buried in my pockets, went numb. I felt long shudders pass through my body. I had underestimated the distance to the Ortskommandantur: when I got there it was pitch-dark and I was trembling like a leaf. I asked for an operations officer. “Are you the one I spoke to?” he asked when he arrived at the entryway where I was vainly trying to warm myself. “Yes. What’s happened?”—“We’re not really sure yet. Some mountain men brought him back in an ox cart. He was in a Kabard aul, in the south. According to the witnesses, he was going into houses and questioning people about their language. One of the neighbors thinks he must have been alone with a young woman and the father surprised them. They heard some gunshots: when they came in, they found the Leutnant wounded and the girl dead. The father had disappeared. So they brought him here. Of course, that’s what they tell us. We’ll have to open an investigation.”—“How is he?”—“Not well, I’m afraid. He got shot in the stomach.”—“Can I see him?” The officer hesitated, examined my face with undisguised curiosity. “This affair doesn’t concern the SS,” he said finally.—“He’s a friend.” He wavered another instant, then said abruptly: “In that case, come along. But I warn you, he’s in bad shape.”